Signa didn’t care one bit for the playfulness of Elaine’s voice or the way she wagged her brows. More than anything, though, she hated the suggestion that a man as despicable as Fate could ever be thought of as handsome. He was ghastlier than anyone she’d ever laid eyes on—which was saying a lot, considering she had grown up seeing all sorts of strange spirits with parts of their bodies stabbed or rotted or blown away in old wars.
Signa didn’t have the heart to shoo Elaine away when her lady’s maid pinched some color into her cheeks and ushered her out the door. “You best be on your way, miss. Your uncle will be meeting you in the carriage.”
While the idea of being escorted by Byron for an entire evening once would have stalled Signa’s steps, she was eager to get him out of Thorn Grove and away from Elijah’s study. Fate wasn’t the only one to be wary of; she needed to see how Byron behaved in the public eye. Whom would he approach or find himself in conversation with? What might his mannerisms be? Whatever he did, she’d be there to track his every move.
Skirts in one hand, Signa held the other above her eyes, blocking out the beaming sunlight as she hurried to a polished carriage led by two stallions with slick black coats and thick muscle. The wiry groom who opened the door was decidedly not Death’s human charade, Sylas Thorly, and Signa felt a little pang in her chest as the young man helped her up.
To Signa’s surprise, it wasn’t Byron who waited for her inside.
“Hello, cousin!” Blythe’s voice was more cheerful than it had any right to be, and Signa fixed her with the most vicious glare to signal as much. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Surely, you knew I was going to come.”
“I expected you would consider it, though I had hoped you’d see reason.” Signa halted at the door, debating the merits of dragging Blythe out by the skirts when the driver cleared his throat.
“Hurry and take your seat,” Blythe scolded. “We’re already late.” She wore a shade of blue so pale it could almost pass for white and kept her hair as loose as possible while still maintaining societal rules. There was a healthy flush to her cheeks, and Signa hated that there was such a glimmer of determination in her eyes, for she had no idea how she might possibly manage to convince Blythe to stay home.
“Where is Byron?” Signa asked.
“He’ll follow us in the next carriage,” Blythe answered. “With our gowns, there wouldn’t have been room for him to stretch his legs.”
Again, the driver cleared his throat. Recognizing that she’d lost this round, Signa sighed and slid onto the velvet seat across from Blythe. Her cousin folded her hands on her lap and inspected the sapphire jewel upon her gloved finger, not meeting Signa’s eyes.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“Of course I should have.” Blythe was dismissive, as though that fact was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at me. I couldn’t let this dress go to waste.”
“I’m being serious, Blythe—”
“So am I.” Only then did Blythe look up with a dark severity in her icy eyes. “My father’s life is at stake. I do not care if the prince is sixty years old or the most boorish man that has ever walked this earth. There is power to being a pretty girl in a pretty dress, and if I have any chance of getting him on our side, I intend to do so. Now, will you help me or not?” She stretched out a hand, and—against her better judgment—Signa let her fingers slip through Blythe’s.
Even through the gloves Signa could feel every bone in Blythe’s fingers. She was still so thin; still so frail. Though Blythe tried not to show it, she was clearly still recovering, and the last thing in the world that Signa wanted was for her to get sucked into Fate’s games any more than the Hawthorne family had already been.
“I will always help you.” Signa squeezed Blythe’s hand in both of her own. “But, given the current state of the Hawthornes and that it’s my name on the invitation, perhaps it would be prudent if I spoke to the prince first.”
“Perhaps.” Blythe shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Though Uncle says the invitation was likely for the family. I understand your concern, but I’ve been to hell and back in this past year. I believed that I would never again attend a ball, let alone ride in another carriage. Yet here I am. A prince does not frighten me, cousin. Especially not one who doesn’t even have the decency to properly invite me to his soiree.”
Signa had little choice but to lean back in her seat and settle her hands into her lap. How much simpler it would have been if only Blythe knew the truth. Step-by-step, she was veering closer to the web that Fate had spun for them. But if Blythe wouldn’t protect herself, then so be it. Signa would work twice as hard to keep the Hawthornes safe, and away from his ensnarement.